Not here, not from these houses full of people and ghosts of past times and hours spent behind desks hammering away at blank screens. Not here, here it just carries its promises and when she opened her window that morning she could not help but notice. The first time. How many years had it blown and knocked on her window up there on the 10th floor and only that day she given in and cracked the window open to feel the air move. It had played with her hair, carrying a sweet scent unknown. It had simply captured her mind then and there. Her colleague asked her to close the window, mind the draft but her mind was racing. What if? What if she left it wide open and went with it. This unknown, this feeling of freedom, this sweet scent. Could that be tomorrow? She closed the window, went back to her desk and sat down to type god knows what.
The breeze did not leave her, the scent lingered and drove her to distraction. How could she focus when there was more and other things? Had she not been thinking lately that this could not be it? When the wind knocked again she made up her mind. No more anger, loneliness, gray hours spent alone amongst millions. She got up, excused herself and walked out. Down those stairs, encountered a hundred times, gray with grime and years of use. Peeling paint on the doors a reminder of stagnancy that kept her moving. Leave the building. Encountering it again. The first breeze. Eyes roaming the street, then running towards the green and wind. Her new story, still alive after all.